The Seventh Night (17 page)

The car pulled to the curb beside me, and the tinted window lowered. Beneath the gleaming hood, the engine throbbed and hummed. Behind the wheel, Reid glared at me.

“Need a ride?”

“Someone close to you night and day. Someone who knows your weaknesses and will use them against you.”

My heart started to pound. The sunlight was blinding. I closed my eyes for one brief second against the glare. “I…” Oh, God, did I want to ride with him? Did I dare? Did I want to be anywhere near him after what Mama Vinnia had just told me? After the dream I’d had last night?

“The dreams tell you what you need to know. Listen to them.”

But how could I believe anything so farfetched? So irrational? This was the twentieth century! Nothing she’d said had made any sense, and yet, how else could I explain all the things that had happened to me since coming to Columbé? How could I explain the changes inside me, the way I felt about Reid?

“Someone has put a spell on you, child.”

“Get in the car, Christine,” Reid commanded, his voice snapping me out of my reverie. The imperious tone immediately raised my defenses.

Good.

Something needed to.

“I’m perfectly capable of walking back to town,” I said.

One dark brow rose. “Oh, really? And which direction is it in?”

I hesitated, then said, “That way,” as I pointed vaguely toward the east.

“Wrong. Just get in the car.”

Any amusement he might have had earlier over the situation had long since vanished. I could see the annoyance in his eyes, in the rigid set of his mouth. I took one last look at the seedy street, the darkened doorways, the unfriendly eyes…and then I did as Reid told me.

I climbed in, slammed the door and settled back against the leather upholstery, my eyes glued to the street in front of me.

Reid gunned the engine, shifted into first, and then, surprisingly enough, slowly ambled down the street. The eyes were still on us, but the tinted windows gave me a false sense of anonymity.

“Just what the hell did you think you were doing, wandering around in a neighborhood like that?” Reid finally asked, his tone more exasperated than angry.

I shrugged. “I made a wrong turn,” I confessed. “But it
is
broad daylight. I would have eventually found my way home.”

“I wonder,” he murmured, and when I glanced at him, he was scowling at the road.

“How did you happen to find me, anyway? What were
you
doing in that neighborhood?” An idea struck me, and my eyes narrowed on him. “You weren’t following me, were you?”

He gave me an aggravated glance. “Someone obviously needs to. I saw Rachel’s car in town, and when I asked around, several of the shopkeepers told me you’d been asking about Vinnia. So I came to find you…” His
voice trailed off, but the words left unspoken clung to the air. So I came to find you…
before it was too late.

I was almost sure now that he’d been trying to find me before I saw Mama Vinnia.

But why?

“Christine, I’d like to give you a bit of warning about Vinnia.”

He had the most uncanny way of picking up my thoughts. It was downright frightening. “What is it?”

“Vinnia, or Mama Vinnia, as she likes to be called, is not exactly on the best of terms with the St. Pierres. She may try to fill your head with all sorts of nonsense, but consider the source. She used to work for us at the house a long time ago, but when Christopher brought in Mrs. DuPrae, Vinnia caused all kinds of trouble. She kept the rest of the staff in a state of turmoil, trying to turn them against Mrs. DuPrae with all sorts of wild stories and accusations that were utterly ridiculous. Mrs. DuPrae never said a word about it, not even when Vinnia began working on Rachel. But Christopher finally got fed up and dismissed Vinnia. That was another bone of contention between he and Angelique. She adored Mama Vinnia.”

“Do they still see each other?” I asked, as a cold blanket of dread settled over me.

“Not that I know of. At any rate, I don’t think
you
should see her anymore.”

“You said that about Lawrence Crawford. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to keep me from the people who seem most interested in helping me find my father.”

Reid shot me an exasperated look. “Think what you want, Christine. But let me handle this. I don’t like the idea of you being alone with that old woman.”

“You think she holds a grudge against me because my father fired her?”

His tone was grim. “You never know. As I’ve said before, old grudges die hard.”

Could I believe him? What he said made so much more sense than what Mama Vinnia had told me, and yet I couldn’t help thinking that there were things,
important
things, that neither of them had told me. Was there no one on the island I could trust?

“True believers are everywhere.”

“Christine.” Reid’s voice was softer now, like liquid silk, pouring over me, drowning me, dissolving my doubts. “I just want you to be careful. Walking the streets in a neighborhood like this can be dangerous, even in broad daylight. Next time, at least tell me where you’re going.”

“I’m not a child, Reid. You can’t expect me to account my every move to you.” I tried to whip up a little anger to combat that subtle coercion, but deep down, I think I welcomed his concern, real or not. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had worried about me, cared about what I did.

“I’ve never thought of you as a child, Christine.”

In the restricting confines of the car, his presence, as always, was overwhelming, awesome. I couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything but how black his hair seemed this morning. Blue-black with just the barest hint of a wave. In profile, his lashes looked even longer and thicker, hooding the blue eyes so that he seemed brooding and intense.

I’d never known a man as handsome as Reid, but his looks were not his only breathtaking feature. He had a kind of basic charisma that sent my pulse racing with awareness.

He sensed my eyes on him and turned, giving me a shielded look that left me wondering. What was he thinking? What did he see when he looked at me?

Tracking my exact thoughts yet again, his gaze swept over me, warming me with his brief scrutiny. He turned
his attention back to the road, but not before I’d seen a little enigmatic flare of light in his eyes.

* * *

“Has anyone told you about the ball?”

I glanced up to catch Reid’s gaze as we sat across the table from one another at a little outdoor café not far from where I’d left Rachel’s car. It was nearly noon, and Reid had suggested lunch before I made my next stop—the police station.

I might even have thought it a delaying tactic on his part, had I not been enjoying his company so much.

“Like a dance you mean?” I asked.

He grinned. “The granddaddy of all dances. It’s a St. Pierre tradition, started by Claude St. Pierre when he founded the hotel over fifty years ago. The hotel hosts the charity gala every year, and people from all over the globe jet in for the occasion. It’s quite a spectacle.”

“When is it?”

“Tomorrow night.

I looked at him in astonishment. “Tomorrow night? But don’t you think it’s a little…insensitive to be having a celebration when my father is still missing? We don’t even know what might have happened to him.”

“Exactly. We
don’t
know. He’s probably perfectly fine, for all we know, off somewhere enjoying his solitude.” Reid deliberately stirred sugar into his tea, avoiding my stare. “At any rate, this event has been planned—and financed—months in advance. The St. Pierre is filled with guests who have come here specifically for the ball. It would be very bad business to let them down.”

How could he be so cool? So calculating? And how could I still find him so alarmingly attractive?

Because you’re crazy,
a little voice told me.

So mote it be,
I answered back, borrowing a line from Mama Vinnia.

“The reason I brought it up,” Reid continued, “is because I think you should plan to attend.”

My fork paused in midair. “Oh, I couldn’t. Not under the circumstances.” Besides, I’d never been to a ball. I hadn’t even been allowed to attend my senior prom. I didn’t know how to dance. I didn’t know how to dress or act or…

“We could present a united front, you see. Dispel some of the rumors that Christopher’s absence is bound to create. What do you say, Christine? I’d consider it a personal favor.”

An image had suddenly popped into my head and wouldn’t go away. Moonlight and flowers and me, dancing with Reid….

“Will you come?” he asked, in a voice that sent shivers of anticipation down my bare arms.

“I’ll think about it,” I hedged.

“Danger,”
Mama Vinnia had said.
“I see danger and blood and fire.”

But even with her warning ringing in my ears, I knew that nothing would keep me away from that ball.

CHAPTER TEN

The Fourth Night

W
hen I sat down to dinner with the family that night, all I could think about was my conversation with Mama Vinnia. Reid was working late, and as soon as he’d left me after lunch, all of the old
mambo’
s dire predictions had descended on my shoulders once again.

But what of the story Reid had told me about
her?
My father had fired her, Reid had said. Was she trying to get even with him by terrorizing me? Could she be the one responsible for my father’s disappearance?

Something else about my conversation with Reid bothered me, too. Angelique had adored Mama Vinnia, he’d said. What had their relationship been like? Had Mama Vinnia taught Angelique her voodoo secrets? Was that why Angelique was able to walk on fire without getting burned?

I looked up and caught Rachel’s brown eyes on me. Something about the way she looked at me, almost studied me, was extremely unnerving. What secrets did
she have?
Reid had said Mama Vinnia had begun to work on Rachel, too, but how? What had Rachel’s relationship with the
mambo
been like?

My gaze moved to the end of the table where Mrs. DuPrae presided over the meal. Her expresssion was serene, as always, but now I thought it more guarded. Why had Mama Vinnia disliked her so? Was she jealous of Mrs. DuPrae’s position? Had she felt threatened by her?

Or was it something more…sinister?

The questions were endless. They spun and whirled inside my brain, making me edgy, suspicious to the point where I didn’t even want to eat or drink.

Was
I being drugged? And for what reason? What could anyone possibly want from me?

Your soul.

The hair-raising answer sprang into my mind as though prompted by someone else’s thoughts. As though someone, somewhere, was trying to warn me.

Stop it!

My internal voice this time. I had to stop the questions, the doubts and suspicions based on groundless speculation before I drove myself mad. My father was still missing; he needed me. Now was not the time to give in to my fears.

Voodoo is a mind game.

I had to remember that.

But as I sat there, my gaze roamed over all those faces—Angelique’s, Mrs. DuPrae’s, Rachel’s—faces that were beginning to seem familiar to me and yet were all still such strangers. I had a feeling they always would be, and it made me a little sad because I realized that there was really nowhere I fit in. No place I could call home.

I wondered if there ever would be.

My gaze drifted to the empty chair at the end of the table. Reid’s chair. I felt his absence keenly tonight. It made me feel even lonelier somehow.

Lonely, and more completely alone than I’d ever felt before.

* * *

The library in the main house epitomized my deepest fantasies and my darkest nightmares.

I wandered in after dinner, looking for a book.

In a way the room seemed to reflect that elusive essence so unique to Reid. It was somber, mysterious, brooding and yet beneath the austerity, there was a pulsing
excitement, a spine-tingling intensity, a primitive and enticing soul.

The wood paneling darkened the room, but floor-to-ceiling windows beckoned the moonlight. Wooden ceremonial masks—some grotesque, some quite beautiful—decorated a portion of one wall, and a collection of primitive weapons claimed the remaining space.

The weapons repelled me at first, but then the exquisitely carved handles of the knives and daggers drew me to their beauty. One in particular—designed with a black coral handle and a vicious-looking blade—fascinated me. Then I remembered why. It was very similar to the weapon the voodoo priest had used to slaughter the goat.

Cringing at the bloody memory, I backed away from the knives and sought the safety of the books. I’d hoped to find some volumes on the history of voodoo in Columbé, and I wasn’t disappointed. There must have been at least thirty tomes on the topic, and I couldn’t help wondering who the collection belonged to.

The first book I pulled down—
Island of Darkness
—was a beautifully bound first edition. The inside cover page bore an inscription: “To Reid, whose vision has always astounded me. I hope this will add to your collection. And to your knowledge.”

It was signed S. S. Stephan St. Pierre. Had Reid’s father given him these books? An odd gift, I thought, choosing one of the other volumes. I noted that they were similarly inscribed. Apparently Reid, at one time or another, had had a fascination with voodoo, a fascination fostered by his father.

The room seemed to grow cold, and I wished I’d worn a sweater, but already the words in the first book had captured my interest. I sat down on the leather sofa, curled my legs beneath me and began to read: